


Color Theory

by eggsaladstain



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Backstory, F/M, Synesthesia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-15
Updated: 2016-05-04
Packaged: 2018-05-01 18:25:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5216084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eggsaladstain/pseuds/eggsaladstain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of a chop shop girl and the spy who loves her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Red Woman

**Author's Note:**

> In which Illya has [synesthesia](http://neurowiki2014.wikidot.com/individual:emotion-evoked-synesthesia).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gaby is Illya's favorite color.

Of all the English phrases Illya has learned over the years, the one that makes the least sense to him is “seeing red.” He’s heard Solo use it more than once when describing him - from the American’s tone, he’s certain it’s not a compliment - and in a rare quiet moment after their latest mission, he finally remembers to ask Gaby what it means.

 _You've never heard that phrase before?_ She asks him incredulously, eyes widening slightly as she unties the scarf around her neck, a remnant of her latest cover. _It’s nothing bad, just means you're angry, that's all._

As if getting angry is not bad, as if it’s no big deal, though he supposes, for most people, it’s not. But he is not most people.

 _Ah._ He nods, taking the fabric from her outstretched hand and folding it neatly. _But why red?_

She opens her mouth, then snaps it shut quickly, her brows furrowing as she thinks. After a second, she shrugs, her reply short. _Anger is red._

It’s a simple statement, and the way she says it makes it sound like fact. Five plus five equals ten. The Earth is round. Anger is red.

But it's not true.

Because for Illya, anger has always been green. Not the bright verdant color of Gaby's dress the day they went to the racetrack so many missions ago, but a sickly olive hue, the shade of vomit and decomposing bodies.

He has seen many of those bodies. He is responsible for many of those bodies.

For Illya, anger is a deep shade of chartreuse, like an artichoke left out to rot. It’s the color he sees most frequently, bleeding into his vision as his hands tremble and his ears buzz, the color he sees when he loses control.

No, he wants to say, it is not red.

Anger is green.

…

Illya has seen the world this way for as long as he can remember.

The first time he tastes a slice of cake, he learns that happiness is yellow by the golden swirls dancing in front of his eyes. It’s been a long time now since he’s felt that color.

He sees anger during every street yard brawl, a dark shade of olive overtaking him and not letting go until the other boys stop moving and the police drag him away.

When he buries a childhood pet on a cold winter day, the world bleeds violet, and his mother tells him to stop crying, to be strong.

The day they take his father away, Illya sees black.

For a long time after that, it’s the only color he sees.

…

Shortly after his father’s exile, and perhaps as another side effect of it, Illya begins seeing colors in other people.

It doesn't happen all the time, and not with everyone, just a flash here and there. A flicker of green as two neighbors argue. A woman sitting alone in a cafe, drenched in indigo.

For Illya, who doesn't much like people to begin with, it's exhausting being constantly bombarded by the cacophony of colors, seeing strangers’ true feelings, learning their deepest secrets. It's not until the KGB recruits him that he realizes how useful the colors can be.

Within his first few months, he uncovers a mole within the organization and saves the lives of two fellow agents in the process. It’s the bright orange hue surrounding the man that exposes him as a liar, but to his superiors, Illya passes it off as intuition, that he’s just good at reading people. He makes his way up the ranks rather quickly as a result, and in a few short years, he’s become one of the KGB’s top operatives.

Too bad it’s all built on a lie.

It bothers Illya more than he cares to admit. Yes, he has saved lives in the process, and yes, he is helping his country, but living in the shadow of his father’s shame has made him acutely aware of the impact of lies, and knowing that his career is now built on one leaves a bad taste in his mouth.

He joined the KGB to repay his father’s debt, but it seems he’s just following in his footsteps.

And now, when he looks into the mirror, he swears there’s an orange tint that only he can see.

...

Solo is blue, the sort of bright cerulean Illya has only ever seen in advertisements for beachside resorts. It’s a color that’s confident and boisterous and more than a little obnoxious. Which, it turns out, accurately describes the man himself.

Illya doesn't like the color and he doesn't like the man either. Too loud, too arrogant. But he finds his opinions changing after Solo saves him from drowning in Rome and even more so later, when he tosses him his father's watch.

It's in Istanbul when he learns that he actually works quite well with the man, with Solo’s charm acting as a diversion to Illya’s preferred method of brute force. What a pair they make, the Cowboy and the Red Peril.

Maybe blue isn't such a bad color after all.

...

Gaby’s color is harder to pin down. The first time he meets her in that boutique, she’s a fiery crimson, but later that night, when they get mugged, she takes on a burnt copper hue, and when she’s lying injured in the rain, she pales to a light pink. She’s a chameleon, taking on the characteristics of her surroundings, maintaining her cover, blending in. It makes her that much harder for him to read accurately.

She never makes it easy for him, either, always poking and prodding and pushing, trying to get a rise out of him, luring him into a dance. But he knows better now. He knows her better now and sometimes, he indulges her, and sometimes, he even takes the lead, because he can play games too, and there’s nothing more amusing to him than her perpetual surprise when he always knows exactly what she’s feeling.

 _How do you always do that?_ She asks him one night, sprawled on the hotel room couch, after he hands her a bottle of aspirin for the headache she never said that she had.  

He shrugs his shoulders, taking a seat opposite her. _I have good intuition._

 _Oh, really?_ She murmurs, sitting up, suddenly mischievous. _What am I feeling right now?_ Her voice drops to a purr and when he lifts his head to look at her, she’s a deep mahogany hue, the color of desire and almost-kisses. There she is, the real Gaby, not a cover or a mask, and it gives Illya a certain selfish satisfaction knowing that only he gets to see her like this.

 _Do you want to dance, Gaby?_ He tries to keep his voice neutral, but it comes out huskier than he intended. She bats her eyes at him, slow and steady, and nods as she takes one, two, three steps closer until she’s standing in front of him. When he breathes, she closes the distance between them and he tastes fire on her lips and sees crimson behind his eyes and maybe gold too.

When they break for air, both breathless and flushed, she lays her head against his shoulder and asks again. _But really, how do you always know what people are feeling?_

And this time, the lie lodges in his throat, refusing to be spoken. Instead, he says the truth, what he has never admitted out loud. _I see them as colors._ It’s not until after the words are out in the air that he realizes how vague that is, but he’s not sure how else to explain it. This is the first time he’s ever tried.

Gaby lifts her head and angles her body so she can look into his eyes. He waits for her laugh, her disbelief, but it never comes. Instead, she just mutters a soft _hmm_ , and taps a finger against his chest. He notices idly that her hand rests on his heart.

 _What color am I?_ She breathes, looking at him expectantly.

And Illya pauses for a moment, thinking of every shade she has ever been, wondering how he is supposed to choose just one.

The tapping on his chest speeds up - she’s impatient, waiting for his response.

 _Ah_ , he says finally as he pulls her closer, smiling against her lips.

_You are my favorite color._

…

And that is why anger cannot be red.

Because Gaby is red, and she is light and good and hope and all the things that anger is not. And every time she holds his hand when it starts to shake, every time he returns to her after a mission, every time he falls asleep by her side, he feels the green recede, dissolving further and further away into his past.

The anger’s hold on him has finally faded, replaced with a new urge - to protect, to love.

Now, the color he sees most is red.

And Illya wouldn’t have it any other way.


	2. Yellow Sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illya is the sun in Gaby's sky.

Despite the perpetual tan of her skin, Gaby doesn't actually spend much time outdoors. As a mechanic (and the daughter of one), she is more frequently found in dark, dusty garages underneath malfunctioning cars.

Not that she minds. She prefers the dark, actually. It's a sort of comforting nothingness that helps her think, helps her concentrate. She does some of her best work at night.

It's during the day when she feels uneasy. She feels exposed in all that brightness, like she's on display. That's why she wears sunglasses so often – to shield herself from the blinding light in any way that she can.

Still, she has to admit, she can't help but feel drawn to it, those warm rays, that soothing glow, the feel of its kiss against her skin.

The first time she locks eyes with Illya, she feels that same pull.

He is half-hidden by shadows, more mirage than man, but when he turns towards her, the light hits his face just so and she is struck by how blue his eyes are, bright and blazing and oh, she likes what she sees.

Is this how Icarus felt, when he first glimpsed the sun?

…

When she wakes up on that second day in Italy, tucked into a bed she doesn't remember climbing into, the light seeping through the curtains nearly paralyzes her. It's too much for her senses, and she grabs one of her largest pair of shades (as Solo would call them), along with a hat, before heading out into the day.

She is not prepared.

The mid-morning sun hits her so hard she has to stop for a moment and catch her breath, and she sees spots dancing in front of her eyes until she rights herself on the door. She's not sure if she wants to throw up or lay down but she knows she can't do either, so she steadies herself and walks towards the car with as much composure as she can possibly manage while still hungover.

Illya, meanwhile, looks like some sort of fair-haired prince from one of her childhood fairytales. It's a significant departure from the man she saw on that dark road in Berlin. Back then, he had seemed mysterious and dangerous and brooding, but now, in the daylight, he seems younger, gentler. As she approaches, she realizes that he's smirking, and for a split second, she wonders if he would still look so dignified if her fist made contact with his jaw.

She never gets to find out, because the next thing she knows, he is slipping a ring onto her finger and they are engaged again. The jewel is heavy and foreign on her hand and she finds herself fiddling with it more than once. It doesn't feel right. Or maybe it feels just right.

She knows it's a cover, she knows that, but there is something undeniably comfortable about his presence, the way he fills and brightens the space next to her. It's dangerous territory she's entering, mixing business with pleasure, but in the back of her mind, there's a nagging little voice telling her that it could be wonderful, that it would be worth the risk.

And she wants to believe it.

So she spreads her wings and flies towards the sun.

…

But here's the thing.

Icarus got too close.

And in the end, he fell.

…

 _You should be careful_ , Solo tells her in Istanbul.

They are eating dinner in a quiet little cafe near the hotel, just the two of them, as their Russian friend has retired to bed early.

She sets her fork down with a gentle clink.  _Whatever do you mean?_  Gaby feigns ignorance, but Solo, rather uncharacteristically, is not in the mood for games.

 _This thing you're doing with Illya_ , he elaborates, and that's when she knows that he's serious because he has always called him Peril, never his real name.  _Be careful_.

She's not sure she wants to have this conversation with him. No, that's not right. She is sure that she doesn't want to have this conversation with him.  _Don't worry, Cowboy_ , she says flippantly.  _I know better than to let myself get hurt_.

If he's annoyed by her tone, he doesn't show it, just leans forward and looks her straight in the eyes.  _It's not you I'm worried about._

That gets a rise out of her. She is not having this conversation, not here, not now, not with a man who has no right telling her what she should and shouldn't do, and certainly not when the man has no business in whatever she is or isn't doing with Illya.

 _Well, you definitely don't need to worry about him,_ she says with a wicked smile.  _Illya's a big boy, I think he can take care of himself._

Solo stares at her for a moment and Gaby knows he's trying to make her uncomfortable, to wear her down until she tells the truth. She's seen him do it many times in the field, but this is not an interrogation and she is not a suspect. Her mouth stays shut.

 _With you_ , he finally says,  _I'm not sure he can_.

The words are like a knife, and the way he says them, they almost sound like an accusation. She realizes her breathing has sped up - the adrenaline that comes with learning she has such power over a man.

They reach a stalemate, neither one speaking, both consumed by their own thoughts. Solo eyes her warily, and he looks so exhausted. When was the last time that he slept?

 _I adore you, Gaby_ , he murmurs, the first to fold.  _But I'm serious about this. Don't hurt him._

(Here's a quiz, which of these two scenarios is more unlikely: Illya getting hurt, or Gaby being the one to hurt him?)  
(You have two hours to complete your essay.)

She wants to retort, to defend herself and her man, but then Solo continues, so quietly she almost misses it, as if he's speaking more to himself than to her.  _You don't know what a broken heart can do to a man._

(For your final exam, which of these scenarios is most unlikely: Illya getting hurt, Gaby hurting him, or Solo experiencing heartbreak?)  
(Trick question - they are all equally improbable.)

 _Solo_ , she says softly, as if she may startle him, and it's troubling to her, the thought that these men might not be as invincible as they seem.  _Napoleon Solo, are you speaking from experience?_

He doesn't respond, which is the only answer she needs.

 _Just…don't hurt him,_ he repeats as he leaves.

And then it's just Gaby, alone at the table with Solo's words and her own thoughts and an ache for a man she was never supposed to have.

She sighs and takes a sip of tea, looking out towards the street.

The sun has set by now, but if she looks hard enough, she can still see a sliver of violet bleeding into the night.

…

They've been together for only four months and part of the trio for another two years on top of that when Illya gets the call one night ordering him back to Mother Russia. He's needed back at the KGB, his commanding officer says. Permanently.

It was only a matter of time. Frankly, she's surprised the call didn't come sooner.

She'll never admit this to him, but she has spent the last four months preparing for this moment, envisioning this exact scenario in her head. Sometimes, she tackles him and yells at him to leave and sometimes she holds his hand and cries for him to stay and sometimes she just says goodbye and that she'll miss him and sometimes, she even tells him she loves him. But now that his last day is really here, she finds herself at a loss, uncertain of what to do or say.

Much to her surprise, and Illya's too, she's sure, the one who throws a fit is Solo.

 _You can't be serious, Peril!_  He fumes, pacing around the apartment, looking more frazzled than Gaby has ever seen.  _They're going to torture you for information, you know, about UNCLE, about us. And if you don't do what they want, they'll kill you. Don't you get it? You have no future there!_ At this point, he may have even thrown something.

Illya is as stonefaced as ever, muttering something about duty and loyalty, before leaving the room to go pack.

 _There's a fine line between loyalty and stupidity_ , Solo shouts after him _, and you've just crossed it!_

Gaby watches the scene unfold before her, pretending they are arguing about literally anything else. What she settles on is this - Illya wants to wear his father's watch with his suit, but Solo insists they would clash. It makes her feel better about the whole thing. Almost.

Solo is still seething when she comes out of her fantasy.  _You're going back there to die!_  he yells, because he knows, as does she, that there is no question where their Russian's true loyalties lie, that the menacing Red Peril would rather betray his own country and suffer a slow, painful death than let any harm come to the Cowboy or the Chop Shop girl.

When Illya returns, Solo is gone, having finally stormed out in frustration. He sets his suitcase - just one - down on the floor and suddenly it's real, it's too real, and it's too soon and she's not ready for this. Why did it have to be him and why did it have to be her and why did they agree to do this when they knew it would end and how is it ending already when it feels like it just began?

She pours herself a drink but it just tastes bitter and burns the whole way down her throat.

He watches her all the while, eyes never leaving her face, and she wonders if he is trying to memorize what she looks like, the way she is trying to memorize him.

 _Gaby_ , he says quietly,  _goodbye_.

There is no sweeping declaration of love, no drawn-out monologue summarizing their time together, not that she was expecting it, not from him. He has always been efficient with his words, using only the bare minimum needed to convey his meaning, so of course he would find a way to reduce his departure down to just one word.

 _Goodbye_.

And it hurts. Oh, but it hurts. She has spent so many months preparing for this, thinking that it might somehow lessen the pain when it finally hits, but it doesn't make a damn bit of difference. It's still a punch straight to her gut, leaving her breathless and shaking.

She realizes that he has turned away from her, perhaps trying to sneak out like she once did in Rome, and she jumps to her feet, crossing the room in a few quick strides until she stands right behind him.

 _Illya_ , she whispers, and he stops in his tracks. The muscles in his shoulders tense as she approaches and she wonders just how much he is holding back. He must want so badly to lash out, to yell and scream, to throw his fists until they are raw and destroy things. She laces her fingers through his, a small comfort, and smiles to herself when she feels him relax.

He turns around to face her now, silent as ever, waiting for her to speak. And there are so many things she wants to say.

Don't go.

Stay with me.

Be safe.

I love you.

Stay with me.

Stay with me.

Stay.

But the words are stuck in her throat. She could never ask that of him, because she has no right to, because it is the one thing he cannot do, and more importantly, because it is the one thing he would do. For her.

She recalls what Solo told her in Istanbul and she knows that she could destroy the man in front of her if she chose. And she could do it with just one word too.

If she asked, if only she asked, he would drop everything to stay with her. And it would kill him, as surely as returning to Russia would. Because Illya Kuryakin is not the kind of man who runs away. Illya Kuryakin is not the kind of man who hides. He is the man who fights.

But now, when he looks at her, he doesn't look like a fighter. He just looks weary and lost and that's what scares her more than anything, the fear that he has given up, the fear that he is already dead. And as much as she wants to scream and cry and beg him not to leave, she knows she has to be strong now for the both of them.

 _Illya_ , she says again, more forcefully this time, and he's so close that she can feel him breathe. She leans in, almost kissing him, and places her hand over his heart.  _It's going to be alright. You're going home._

With that, he nods, exhaling what she is certain is relief, and she feels it too, knowing that she is not just another master with a leash, knowing that she is not holding him back, knowing that he is free.

And then he is gone, out the door and out of her life and she is left alone as the familiar darkness greets her.

For the first time in her life, she wants the light.

…

Here's the thing.

Icarus got too close, and in the end, he fell.

But for a moment, he got to touch the sun.

...

It's the creaking sound in her hallway that wakes her. She sits up with a start, instantly alert, and picks up the nearest blunt object - a heavy copy of War and Peace (the original Russian text, of course) from her night stand. Slowly, she makes her way down the hall, book clutched in hand as the first rays of morning light cast a warm glow on her living room.

Standing there is Illya.

She breathes - inhale, exhale - and closes her eyes. When she opens them, he is still there.

She takes a step towards him, then another. He is still there.

(Pop quiz: Who is the last person Gaby expects to see standing in her flat at 5am?)  
(Answer: Illya.)

 _I come back_ , he says, and she can't help but laugh at his English, which clearly suffered during his time in Russia. When he smiles in response, she launches herself at him, the book falling from her hand as she wraps her arms around his neck and holds on for dear life. He grunts softly at the impact, and that's when she notices the blood at his temple and the bruise on his cheek.

Apparently his English wasn't the only thing that suffered, and she wonders how many other injuries he has that she can't see.

She doesn't like the thought and pushes it out of her mind. The injuries will heal in time, she tells herself. They will fade away until they are nothing more than a bad memory and then the two of them will make new memories, new happy memories, like this one right now, when his lips are on hers, and god, she has missed this, she has missed him so so much. She promises herself then that she will spend the rest of her life making memories with him.

When they break apart, they're a mess of limbs on the couch, and she presses her forehead to his.

 _You came back_ , she repeats, afraid to speak any louder, afraid of breaking the spell. But his hands in her hair and his breath on her cheek tell her this is real. This is real and he is here with her and he is here, he is here.

He kisses her again, long and slow, and she can feel the slight turn of his mouth that tells her he's happy.

 _I come back,_  he nods, pressing his hand against her cheek.  _I come home._

She likes the sound of that. Home.

She likes the sound of that very much, and she curls up against his side, a contented sigh escaping her lips as she feels the steady drum of his heartbeat.

Moments later, the dawn breaks and the morning sun washes over them, Gaby in the light and Illya in her arms.

And they are home.


	3. A Slice of Orange

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lies have never tasted so sweet.

There is a strong likelihood that Gaby and Solo are up to something.

Illya isn't sure what, but he's certain nothing good can come of it, not if those two are involved.

The first time he notices something is amiss, he finds them huddled together in the kitchen, whispering intently. He can't see what they're looking at, but judging by Gaby's furrowed brow, it must be something serious.

 _New mission?_  He asks, and at the sound of his voice, they break apart abruptly, Solo stammering that it's nothing while shoving what looks like a rather large book into his briefcase. Gaby, meanwhile, fidgets with her shirt and inspects the countertop as if it's suddenly the most interesting thing in the world. It's really not.

He looks back and forth between them skeptically. In all the years they have worked together, he has seen his partners talk their way out of torture and charm even the most stoic assassins without breaking a sweat - he himself was charmed, after all - but he has never seen them this flustered.

 _Nothing?_  He repeats slowly, not bothering to hide the disbelief in his tone.

 _Nothing!_  Gaby and Solo say in unison, a little too loudly, a little too quickly, and at that moment, before Illya's very eyes, they both turn the exact same shade of orange.

For a pair of spies, they really are terrible liars.

…

The next day, Illya wakes just before dawn to find Gaby's side of the bed empty. She had claimed the right side for herself – it's closer to the window – but more often than not, they wake up in the morning on his side – closer to the door – wrapped around each other, dangling precariously close to the edge.

Gaby, it turns out, like to cuddle, and her characteristic disregard for personal space becomes even more pronounced when she's asleep. Not that he minds. He actually quite likes waking up to the feeling of tiny but strong limbs entangled with his own.

Looking at the empty space now, Illya feels fear start to creep up his neck, cold and sharp.

Where did she go?

Since they moved in together, he has always been the first one to wake. Those early moments are his favorite part of the day, a rare bit of peace before the world starts spinning again, when he can slow down and drink in the sight of Gaby's calm face, her long lashes fluttering against her skin. It never cease to surprise him, how gentle she looks when she sleeps, so delicate and fragile. How very unlike the woman that he usually sees.

The woman who is presently missing.

Where could she be?

There's no note, no  _Stepping out, -G_  scrawled onto a scrap of paper, and her purse is still where she left it on the kitchen table. Everything is just as it was the night before.

His mind immediately jumps to the worst conclusion – that she's being tortured somewhere, that she's already dead. It's been a long time since they've had to look over their shoulders, and he wonders now if that was a mistake, if their demons from the past have followed them home. The thought makes him sick to his stomach and he's just beginning to see green clouding his vision when the lock clicks and the front door swings open, Gaby walking in, unharmed, intact, alive.

She freezes when she sees him, eyes wide, and between the two of them, he's not sure who is more startled.

They stand there like that for a moment, unmoving, blinking at each other, before he snaps out of it.

 _Where have you been?_  He shouts, more out of concern than anger, rushing to her side.

Regret washes over her face as she looks at him, apology clear in her eyes, and she takes his hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. He sighs, feeling his temper disappear almost instantly.

 _I'm sorry, Illya. I didn't mean to worry you_ , she murmurs,  _It's just that I couldn't sleep and decided to go out for a walk._

But Gaby has always slept like a rock – or was it a log? He can't remember the correct phrase, but he does know that she is the soundest sleeper he has ever known. In fact, she goes so still and so quiet when she sleeps that it has become a morning ritual for him to check her pulse to make sure she is still breathing.

His relief turns to suspicion as he watches her carefully, eyes narrowing, and aha!, there it is – orange again.

 _Gaby_ , he says seriously.  _You're lying_.

And this time, she doesn't fidget, doesn't flinch away. She knows she's caught so she holds his gaze and simply replies,  _I can't tell you yet._

He considers this for a moment. It's not an answer, but there's nothing more he can do if she won't tell him.  _Do I need to worry?_

She shakes her head and wraps her arms around him, pressing a soft kiss against his cheek.  _No. No worrying_.

So he doesn't ask why she was sneaking around so early in the morning.

He doesn't ask why there is a white powder all over her clothes.

And he doesn't ask why he can smell the Cowboy's cologne in her hair.

No worrying, she says.

And he believes her.

…

There is the possibility, of course, that Gaby is having an affair with Solo.

Illya has considered this, many times, and it's not because he doesn't trust her. On the contrary, he trusts her with his life and with his secrets and with his heart. And it's not even that he doesn't trust Solo, because he trusts him too. It's just that, of the three of them, Illya feels like the odd man out.

They are much better suited for each other, the Cowboy and the Chop Shop Girl, both dark haired and charming and funny, lighting up any room they walk into. He is not these things. He is the one who does not belong, the strange silent giant in the corner who scowls too much and doesn't know what to do with his hands.

And yet, she chooses him.

And yet, he chooses her.

Despite all their differences, they choose each other, even though he is tall and she is small and he is a morning person and she is a night owl and he likes quiet games of chess and she likes dancing to loud music.

They may be opposites in every way, but not where it counts, not with their feelings for each other.

In the end, isn't that the only thing that matters?

So yes, he has considered the possibility that Gaby is having an affair. Because he is a spy and he has been trained to evaluate every angle and examine every possibility. He has considered it and he rejects it.

Because every moment they are together, every morning when she wakes up in his arms, and every night when he falls asleep to the sound of her voice, they choose each other, over and over again.

And this, he knows, is not a lie.

...

Illya returns that evening to a dark apartment – strange, since Gaby should also be home by now. He drapes his jacket over the back of a chair and loosens his tie, going still as he hears a noise from the kitchen.

 _Gaby?_  He calls, peering down the hallway.

And she emerges from the dark, a plate of flickering lights casting shadows on her face as she walks towards him.

It's only when she gets closer that he realizes she is holding a cake.

 _Solo found out that we missed your birthday,_ she explains,  _so of course we had to make things right._

She makes her way over to the couch, setting the cake down on the coffee table and beckoning him to join her.

 _And it's not a birthday without a cake. But you know how much I hate cooking and I've never baked anything in my life,_ she's rambling now,  _so I asked Solo to teach me and I think I got it right though it may be a tad on the sweet side…_

She trails off awkwardly and looks at him, expectant and hopeful.  _Do you like it?_

As if he could say no. He likes everything she makes, even her scrambled eggs that are somehow always burnt and undercooked at the same time. Luckily, this cake is pristine, frosted so perfectly it looks professional, and he can only nod, not quite trusting himself to speak. Gaby lets out a squeal of delight and throws her arms around his neck and as much as he wants dessert, he can also think of a couple other things he would rather do as her hands slide under his shirt.

It's at this moment that Solo waltzes into the apartment. Gaby pulls away with a sigh and Illya silently curses himself for letting her talk him into giving the Cowboy their spare key.

 _I see you've already started to dig in_ , he says with a wink,  _but let's try the cake, shall we?_  He passes Illya a plate and fork.

Illya inspects the slice carefully before taking a bite – a small one, because food poisoning has become a serious concern in his life since she came into it.

Much to his surprise, the cake is actually quite good. The flavor is sweet and fragrant and it melts in his mouth, immediately transporting him back to his childhood, to the first time he tasted something so wonderful, the first time he saw happiness.

 _It is delicious_ , he says, finally, and he's can't tell if it's Gaby or Solo who looks more pleased.

 _Oh_ , she sighs,  _I'm so relieved! Illya, you have no idea how much time we spent on this!_

He pauses for a moment.  _We?_

She clasps a hand over her mouth, then corrects herself. _Well, Solo spent a bit of time teaching me…_

 _But the cake is all hers,_ the Cowboy jumps in.  _She made it all by herself. I definitely didn't help her with the batter and I certainly didn't make a new one for her and do all the frosting and decorating after she dropped hers on the floor._

 _That didn't happen at all,_ they both say in unison, a little too quickly, a little too loudly.

Illya just nods, returning his attention to the slice of cake before him. He chooses to ignore the fact that that they have both turned the exact same shade of orange.

For a pair of spies, they really can be terrible liars sometimes.

But as far as lies go, he's never tasted one this sweet.


	4. Into the Deep Blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There once was a girl who fell in love with the sea.

When Gaby is a little girl, her father takes her to the beach for the first and last time.

She has never seen anything like it before – the bottomless sea, the neverending sky, the flecks of gold beneath her feet. The world looks so alive that day and she soaks up the sunlight happily, fingers skimming along the edge of the water. As comforting as the sun is, there is something about the sea that calls to her, luring her in to unlock its mysteries, beckoning her to discover what lies down there in the deep. She places her face just above the surface but there is only blue as far as her eyes can see.

It is beautiful.

It is the most beautiful thing she, in her young life, has ever seen, and she is completely enchanted.

That night, she carries home a pocket full of sparkling shells and sand and a tiny jar of saltwater, placing them carefully on her windowsill, hoping to preserve its magic. She falls asleep with the sea on her skin and in her hair and inhales it into her veins.

When she dreams, she sees blue.

... 

The next morning, Gaby wakes to a twinkling light hitting her eyes. She sits up groggily, looking around her bedroom before realizing it’s coming from the window.

Oh, the windowsill!

With bated breath, she rushes towards the light and peers at the array of objects she left there the night before. Much to her relief, she finds that the shells are still shiny, the sand still gold. And in its little jar, her piece of the ocean, brilliant and beautiful and blue as ever.

She scoops her jewels up in her hands and runs down the stairs, looking for her father, who is sure to be pleased with her treasure. Instead, she finds a strange man in the kitchen who tells her that her father is gone and that he will be her guardian from now on, and to go on back upstairs and pack please.

The shells fall from her fingers and shatter on the ground.

Is this her doing? Is this the price of her greed, for thinking she might be able to keep the sea?

Returning to her room solemnly, Gaby picks up a small suitcase and throws her clothes and shoes and a few books into it before snapping the lid shut.

The glass jar sits by the window all the while, blue water winking at her.

With a steady hand, she throws it out.

...

Many years later, when Illya confesses that he can see colors, Gaby believes him.

Because once upon a time, she too, had seen magic and felt its spark.

But the day her father leaves, she wishes she hadn’t.

...

Gaby avoids the ocean after that. She doesn’t want to be lured in by its promises again and she’s afraid - afraid that she’ll take another piece of it, afraid of the price she will have to pay. More than anything, she’s afraid that it will take a piece of her.

What if it already has?

The auto shop is the perfect hiding spot - landlocked and surrounded by steel and metal. The heavy clang of machinery and noise is almost enough to drown out the thrum of the siren song in her ears, and the overwhelming stench of gasoline just barely erases her memory of saltwater and sand. There is no magic here, not unless you count her uncanny ability to fix broken engines.

It’s not so bad.

The work is a little repetitive, the hours are long, and she always goes home dirty, but it is safe. For Gaby, that’s all that really matters. What good is the sea and all its magic if it doesn’t pay her bills or put a roof over her head? She is not a child anymore. She cannot live on fairy tales.

She walked away from that life the day her father walked out of hers.

Now, she spends her days tucked away in a dark, dusty garage, tinkering with different types of treasures. She falls asleep with soot in her hair and grease on her skin, and feels fire in her blood.

Now, when she dreams, she sees bright red flames.

She no longer hears the call of the wild.

She no longer believes in magic.

...

But that does not mean that magic stops believing in her.

…

For a while, Gaby is safe, and for a while, she believes she is happy. But she soon learns that safety is only temporary and the life she has built for herself out of blazing metal is no match for the tempest of her past. All it takes is one grainy black and white photograph for everything to come crashing down.

Suddenly, she’s escaping the comfort of the shop, sitting instead behind the steering wheel with a spy in the back seat and another one in the car beside her. It sounds like the punchline of a bad joke or the beginning of a murder mystery – a German, an American, and a Russian meet on an empty road…

The American does not concern her. He is like her – wily and adaptable – and she knows she can take him if she needs to. The Russian is another story. He is unlike any man she has ever seen, and when she looks at him for the very first time, she finds herself unable to look away.

His eyes are dark and the shadows surround him, molding to his face like he is one of them. He terrifies her and fascinates her and it doesn’t help that he is oh so attractive.

But so are most predators to their prey.

He reminds her of the stories her father – the one who raised her, not the one who disappeared – used to tell her when she was a child. Stories of little girls who wander into the dark and never come out again, stories of monsters that live in the shadows.

The Russian is no monster, but he is no mere man either. No, he is the thing lurking in the deep, the bright dark thing that dangles a shining light to mask a row of razor sharp teeth, hiding in places never meant to be seen. But when she looks at him, there is a small part of her that wants to see.

When he chases her through those dark, empty streets, there is a part of her that wants to be caught.

And catch her he does, a few days later on a different street in a different city at a different time. He is no longer a shadow. Not under the warm light of day, which hits his golden hair just so and highlights his eyes, a deep aqua color that Gaby has not seen in a very long time. No, under the sun, he is the knight who slays the beast, the prince who becomes the king. Oh, he is beautiful. And he is hers, at least for the moment.

She will enjoy this, she thinks to herself. She will enjoy this very much, playing the part of his queen.

But then he pulls out the ring – a pretty pearl that’s been dipped in ink – and she thinks perhaps she is the one being played.

When he slips the gem onto her finger, she swears she sees blue eyes winking at her.

Ah. So the sea found her again after all.

...

Here is a secret.

The ocean’s magic does not come from its clear blue waters, though they are beautiful, or its hidden mysteries, though they are deep. The real magic comes from the tide, which ebbs and flows and reveals treasures that were lost long ago.

That is why people stand there at the edge of the sand as the waves crash towards them. They are waiting, waiting to see what will be left behind.

And those lovely lost things, they are waiting too.

They are waiting to be found.

...

It is on a tiny island where Gaby is reunited with her father, when the sea returns him to her shores.

She has not seen him in nearly twenty years, but the moment she catches sight of his face, it is as if no time has passed at all. There are many things she wants to say to him, so many words she has prepared for this very scenario, but when he gets closer, she notices how old he looks, old and tired. The years have not been kind to him either. When she slaps him, there is no force behind her hand.

He brings her down to the basement, and she nearly laughs at the sight of it. So he too has chosen to hide away from his past in a dirty, dark garage. But while she was fixing what was broken, he was creating missiles and nuclear weapons and other war toys whose sole purpose is to break and destroy. Instead of a sanctuary, this basement is his prison.

It soon becomes Gaby’s too.

She can’t say she’s surprised when Victoria turns on them and orders her men to lock her up in a cell. Her father is a loose end, after all, and so is she. But did the men really have to use so much force when dragging her away? She’s sure to have bruises in the morning.

They don’t need to worry, she doesn’t plan on running. She knows that reinforcements are on their way, and more than that, she knows that her father will succeed in finding a way out of this.

So she makes herself as comfortable as she possibly can against the cold, damp wall, and stares out the window as the moon awakens the night.

She does not know then that the sea is fickle, that it has taken her father for a second time.

She does not know then that the tide will never bring him back.

...

She does not find out until later, when she sits enveloped in a blanket, trying to ignore the pain in her arms and her legs.

Solo is the one who breaks the news, who approaches her cautiously and tells her he’s so sorry they couldn’t get to her father in time.

Gaby doesn’t speak. There is a scream stuck in her throat but she can’t make a sound and she feels heavy, like she is sinking down, down, down into the cold, dark abyss.

It is only Illya’s hand on her shoulder that keeps her from drowning.

... 

The tide turns back once more.

…

By the time they reach Istanbul, her wounds have mostly healed and the pain is no longer sharp enough to stop her breath. Waverly had asked if she might consider sitting this one out, but she politely declines. She is not ready to deal with the aftermath of Rome. Not yet.

Their new mission is much simpler, and much less dangerous. There is no fiancée in her cover this time and Gaby is only a little disappointed. But perhaps she is not the only one, because though there is nothing forcing the two of them together, Illya never leaves her side. Not that he needs to. She still wears his ring, after all. Her finger feels empty without it.

On their third day of the case, they have nothing left to do but wait. Solo immediately gallivants off somewhere, dodging her questions about where he will be. That leaves just her and Illya, and judging from the half smile on his face, their day off is all a part of his plan.

_I have surprise_ , he says, taking hold of her arm and steering her out of the hotel. _Close your eyes_ , he tells her, _and put on sunglasses too. No peeking._

She obliges with a small huff. His hand rests at the small of her back, guiding her through the throng of people towards their mystery destination.

_We’re here_ , he finally says, and gently pulls the lenses from her face. When she opens her eyes, she sees an endless sky before her, sitting atop a clear blue sea.

He has brought her to the beach.

And the siren song she has spent so long ignoring finally bursts free.

She lets go of his hand and kicks off her shoes, running towards the water, relishing the feeling of warm sand between her toes and sunlight on her skin. The smell of salt hangs heavy in the air, and she breathes it in hungrily.

Why did she spend so much time hiding? Why did she waste so much time in that metal cage when she could have been out here?

She’s so caught up in what she’s been missing that she doesn’t notice when Illya comes up behind her, and she jumps, startled, when he laces his fingers through hers.

_Look_ , he points his free hand towards the horizon. _The sunset_.

And she stops and stares as the fiery sky flickers in the distance, her hand warm in his. Slowly, she turns and pulls him in closer, closer, closer until they are separated only by the breath between them. It’s not until the sun is swallowed by the ocean that she finally presses her lips against his.

When she breaks away, there is only blue as far as her eyes can see.

It is beautiful. And she is enchanted.

And not just by the sea.

...

That night, Gaby returns to her room, her hands empty except for the memory of the ocean underneath her fingertips. She has no need for shiny trinkets, not anymore.

She falls asleep with saltwater on her skin and in her hair, and when she dreams, she sees navy waves under a cloudless sky.

In the morning, she wakes to the sight of sandy golden hair and bright sapphire eyes.

So she did take a piece of the sea after all.

And this time, she keeps it.


	5. These Violet Ends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illya was always good at handling pain, until one day, he isn’t.

Illya gets the call on Tuesday morning. He's in the kitchen, busy making breakfast for Gaby, who is on her way back from her latest solo mission. She really should be home by now, he thinks, glancing quickly at the clock, but it's been raining heavily for the past few hours so perhaps she's been delayed by traffic.

The phone rings in the other room, the sound muffled by the howling winds and sharp rainfall slamming against the windows. He hastily wipes his hands on a towel before rushing to pick up the receiver. This must be her now, telling him she'll be late.

But he doesn't recognize the voice on the other end.

 _Mr. Kuryakin, I'm so sorry to tell you this_ , a woman says slowly.  _It's about Ms. Teller._

And then the world turns purple as his chest constricts with pain and panic.

 _There's been an accident_.

...

Illya always thought it would be the job that would kill them.

Perhaps a failed undercover operation that ends in torture and a slow death. Maybe someone with a grudge who's out for blood. Or it could be that their luck just runs out one day.

He thinks about it often, actually. Whenever he is restless or bored he rattles off in his mind all the ways they could die.

Gunshot.

Drowning.

Explosion.

Stabbing.

The list goes on and on and on.

It might sound morbid, but it helps him focus, like a sort of horrible motivational mantra. If he has already imagined the worst possible outcome, then he will be better equipped to prevent it.

At least, that's what he tells himself.

But when he puts the phone down, trying to steady his hammering heart, he remembers that there is no preventing it.

Car crash was never on his list.

...

Gaby is in surgery when he arrives at the hospital, so he takes a seat in one of the stiff metal chairs and waits. An hour passes, then another, but there's still no word. When Solo arrives a little while later, she is still in the operating room.

 _She'll be fine_ , Cowboy says, but his tone is slightly hysterical, making it sound less like a statement and more like a question.

She'll be fine. Right?

Illya tries to nod but his body doesn't quite cooperate and he ends up making a sort of sharp, sideways head tilt. Solo starts pacing, and at one point, fidgets so much that a passing nurse thinks he is a patient.

What a pair they make.

But they are supposed to be a trio.

...

Despite the harsh lighting and the chemically clean smell – both things that Solo and Gaby hate – Illya doesn't mind hospitals. He finds it almost comforting, how sparse they are, the way they focus only on the essentials.

But perhaps he is biased.

As a child, hospitals were like a second home to him.

...

It's not that he's a sickly boy, quite the opposite, in fact. He has always been an active child, but after his father's exile, by the time he is a teenager, his hobbies become more destructive as roughhousing with friends turns into full-blown schoolyard brawls against anyone who insults his family. His teachers don't want much to do with him either, and instead of taking him to the school nurse, they send him to the hospital down the road, where a busy assistant hastily patches up his cuts and scrapes in between patients.

Not that Illya minds.

In fact, the sterile rooms are preferable to his own house, which is constantly filled with strange men and the stench of cigarettes and cologne. His mother explains that they are his father's old friends, and for a while, they do seem rather friendly, always bringing over food and lending a hand with repairs.

They're just trying to help, his mother assures him, and they never ask for much in return.

So she says.

But Illya soon learns the truth. These men collect their payment in flesh, and sometimes, they collect using their fists.

On those days, Illya is the one who pays.

His hospital trips become longer overnight stays, and instead of minor bruises, he begins sporting a variety of sprains and fractures. He learns how to lie, to the nurses who ask about the scars on his arms, to the store clerk who questions his black eye.

 _I tripped on the stairs_ , he explains.

 _I'm very clumsy_ , he apologizes.

One day, a particularly nasty incident lands him in a hospital bed with a concussion and a gash at his temple. It later heals into the scar that now sits near his eye.

When he wakes, gauze wrapped around half of his head, he tells the doctor and nurse that he slipped and fell in the kitchen.

It's mostly true.

He did fall.

After being hit in the face with a bottle of wine.

But they don't need to know that. He's not sure they would care anyways. Illya suspects that the hospital staff has been paid to look the other way, to ignore the traitor's son who comes in with a new bruise every other week.

So he tells them what they want to hear. Because he is good at doing as he's told. Because he does not want to follow in his father's footsteps.

He is discharged after three days, with strict instructions to rest and be more careful. The doctor jokes that he should leave the cooking to his mother and Illya musters a small smile, promising to try.

Another lie.

When he returns to the house, he notices right away that the kitchen has been cleaned spotless – the broken dishes have been swept away, the floor has been mopped and dried, and there is even a new bottle of wine gleaming on the counter.

He shuts the door with a soft click, turning around in time to see a man – the one who put him in the hospital – coming down the stairs, an arm wrapped around his mother. Despite the stitches in his head, Illya feels his fists clench and he takes a step closer, already forgetting the doctor's orders as his body roars for revenge.

But before he can make a move, his mother sweeps down the steps, all smiles and apologies. She calls it a terrible accident, a tragic misunderstanding, and waves it away with a flick of her wrist. Her arms, skinnier than he remembers, envelop him in a stiff hug, and when she pulls away, he spies, underneath her shawl, a pale purple welt coloring her skin.

She catches him looking and shakes her head quickly, muttering that it's nothing, then plasters on a fake, wide smile and ushers them all into the kitchen.

He is his mother's son in the end, right down to the matching bruises and flimsy lies.

 _Come, Illya_ , she calls, gesturing wildly and talking so loudly he wonders if she is already drunk.  _A toast to my boy's health and recovery!_  He does not appreciate the irony.

She grabs three glasses from the cupboard as the man follows her, popping the cork off the bottle and pouring the contents into each glass.

He hands one to Illya with a wink.  _One sip won't hurt_.

But it wasn't just one sip the last time. And that wasn't what hurt.

What Illya wants to do is throw his drink in the man's face. What he wants to do is smash the bottle against his head and see how he likes it. But he can't. He can only watch as his mother laughs too hard and makes a fool of herself with the man who nearly killed him.

He looks down at the cup in his hands and considers it carefully. As he watches the dark liquid sloshing around, he can still feel the sharp glass from the bottle piercing his skin. He can still see the deep violet stain bleeding into his shirt.

Illya raises the glass to his lips.

It smells sweet, but he can only taste blood.

...

A few years after Illya joins the KGB, he tracks down that man, and he kills him. He takes no pleasure in it, but it does feel like justice.

When he tells his mother that the man is dead, she cries from relief, but the shroud of purple that he has seen cloaking her ever since he was a boy, that still remains.

The man who hurt her may be gone, but her pain isn't.

...

This time, it isn't his mother's pain, nor his own.

This time, it is Gaby.

Gaby in the hospital. Gaby's blood leaving stains.

He would give anything to take her place.

...

Six hours after Illya arrives and three hours after Solo, a doctor emerges from the operating room and declares that Gaby is stable and sleeping, that they can go in and see her now if they'd like. Solo excuses himself, saying that he'll let Waverly know, and Illya is grateful for the chance to be with her alone.

He opens the door slowly. The only sound he can hear is the steady beeping of a machine that reassures him of her still beating heart.

The room is dimly lit, but even the shadows cannot hide the paleness of her face or the cast wrapped around her leg. Yes, she is alive, but the tubes sticking out of her arms and the brace holding her neck are harsh reminders of how close she came to death's door.

He pushes her hair away from her eyes and takes a seat by the bed.

She is so still, and so quiet.

Too still.

Too quiet.

And for the first time in his life, Illya feels small. He feels helpless, like there is an ocean between them that he cannot cross, like she has gone someplace far away where he cannot reach.

It is not a place he cares to be.

...

Shortly after he and Gaby begin their relationship, a mission takes them to Russia. They get to go undercover again, and she gets to see where he grew up, and for a while, everything seems to be going fine.

Then he gets a call that his mother has been injured.

He drops the receiver with a loud click and rushes towards the door as Gaby calls out to him.

 _Illya, wait_ , she murmurs, emerging from the bedroom with her coat on and his jacket draped over her arm. A small overnight bag dangles from her hand as she walks towards him.

 _Let's go_ , she says, holding out her empty hand and grasping his firmly.

He is not ready for this. But with Gaby by his side, he can pretend that he is.

The hospital is only a few minutes away from their hotel, and when they arrive, Gaby tells him to go ahead inside as she has something else to take care of. He has no time to ask what she's doing and rushes through the doors as the doctor – the same man who once stitched up his head – points him towards his mother's room.

Much to his relief, she is awake and looking well despite the bandage covering her cheek and the sling cradling her arm.

 _I fell_ , she explains when she sees him, and this time, he knows it is the truth.

Illya makes his way over to her side and presses a kiss against her greying blonde hair.  _Be careful, Mother._

She looks at him, suddenly serious, as if she is about to say something important, but he never finds out what. At that moment, Gaby enters with a small bouquet of flowers and the atmosphere in the room instantly brightens.

 _I hope you like them_ , she says quietly, setting them on the table with a timid smile. And Illya's mother, who has always disliked strangers and physical contact, and especially the two of them together, immediately grabs her in a warm hug. He can't help but smile as he watches the two of them chat like they are old friends, and more than once, he hears his mother laugh.

It has been a long time since he has heard that sound.

When the doctor finally comes back and tells them visiting hours are over, Illya's mother is already calling Gaby her daughter-in-law and making plans for the three of them to have dinner.

 _I like her_ , she whispers to him after Gaby has left the room.  _Bring her back soon_.

And Illya leans down, giving her frail hand one last squeeze, and promises that he will.

Just before he leaves, he glances back at his mother and sees the same purple tint surrounding her. But this time, there's some yellow there too.

And that when he knows that he loves Gaby.

Because she brings happiness back to his mother's life, and to his.

...

They visit her again some months later in the spring for her birthday. She is in a wheelchair by that point, her legs unable to support her, but her smile is as bright as ever when she sees the two of them. It is a good day, and when they are about to leave, Illya's mother takes his hand and tells him that she is proud of him.

It is the first time she has ever said those words. He can't shake the feeling that it is also the last.

And dammit, he is right.

A few days after they say goodbye, his mother dies peacefully in her sleep.

Illya does not cry when he gets the news – it is not the Russian way – but Gaby does. It affects her deeply, perhaps because she lost her own mother so young, perhaps because she hoped to have a lasting relationship with his. She cries so hard she loses her voice, and when they return home, he notices a change in her.

Gaby, who has always been so many colors, has gained a new one on her palette. The passionate reds and vibrant yellows are still there, much to his relief, but now, there is also a tiny spot of purple nestled near her heart.

...

It is Thursday afternoon when Gaby finally wakes. Illya has been sitting in a chair by her bed all the while, passing the time the best way he knows how.

Electrocution.

Strangling.

Suffocation.

He will not add car crash to the list.

Eventually, he falls into a fitful sleep, waking when the morning sun seeps through the blinds and hits his face. He stretches his stiff back and freezes at the sound of a soft rustling coming from the bed, not quite believing his ears.

The rustling turns into a hoarse groaning, and then he hears it, his favorite sound.

_Illya?_

He rushes to Gaby's side as she blinks up at him, dark eyes heavy with sleep.

 _Gaby, I'm here_ , he murmurs, smoothing back her hair and repositioning the brace around her neck. She winces at the movement, but he can't keep his hands still. He needs to make sure that she's real.

 _Illya_ , she tsks,  _stop fussing._

He forces himself to sit back down and settles for holding her hand instead. When she looks at him, he feels a relief that he hasn't felt in days.

 _Does it hurt very much?_  He asks, furrowing his brow when she clutches her side. She is a pale shade of pink now, but every once in a while, he sees violet creeping at her edges.  _Should I call the doctor?_

He leans forward, caressing her face, and she sighs as she leans into his touch.

 _No,_ Gaby says, stroking the back of his hand with her thumb.

The violet recedes.

 _It's not so bad,_ she smiles.  _Not when I'm with you_.


	6. Green-Leafed Clover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gaby falls in love because of the color green.

 

Gaby enters the world with luck on her side, but what she doesn't know, in that moment when she opens her mouth and breathes for the very first time, is that luck is just another name for fate.

The early days of her life are idyllic and happy. She wants for nothing, she has a nice home, she is loved. But sometime during her fifth year, the switch flips abruptly from good to bad and everything goes downhill after that.

Her mother falls ill in the spring and is buried in the fall.

A year later, her father leaves one night and never comes back.

_It could be worse_ , says the old woman next door, with the irritability of one who has lived a long, tumultuous life. _At least you didn't get sick too. At least you're not going to the orphanage._

_It could be worse_ , the crone says. _Consider yourself lucky._

Somehow, it sounds like a curse.

...

Gaby grows up rebellious.

Her reasoning is simple – her life has not followed convention, so why should she?

So while yes, she does attend ballet lessons like a good girl, she also insists on learning the fine art of automobile and motorcycle maintenance, and divides her time evenly between school and the garage. She ruins – perhaps by accident, perhaps not – more than one good leotard with grease and gasoline stains.

_Why do you spend so much time in that garage anyways?_ The old woman asks her. _Look at you, you're meant to be a dancer!_

The thought unnerves Gaby, that her life has been decided long before she has had the chance to live it, that she might be following a path that was already paved before she even took her first step.

It unnerves her, and then it angers her.

She does not want to be pressed into a neat, ordinary mold. She does not want to follow the path that is expected of her.

And so she trades her pointe shoes for a pair of dirty boots, her leotard for faded coveralls, and goes to work in the garage full-time.

And just like that, Gaby does what so many before her have failed to do.

She fights fate.

...

Gaby never thinks of herself as lucky, but even she can acknowledge that is not her driving prowess alone that helps her escape East Germany that night. It is luck, and more than a little bit that keeps her from falling into the clutches of the menacing KGB agent hot on her heels.

And it can only be luck that throws him back into her life a few weeks later as an ally, with a name to his frustratingly handsome face.

Luck.

In other words…

Fate.

Because Illya Kuryakin is not the kind of man you meet at a corner store and strike up conversation with. He is not the kind of man you meet by accident, going about your everyday life. Illya is the kind of man you meet with intention, when the skies are clear and the stars align, and only if you are meant to.

Yes, it can only be fate that threads her path with his.

And this time, it doesn't feel like such a curse.

...

The first gift Gaby ever buys Illya is a tie.

It's an impulse purchase, not for any occasion, just something she sees in a shop window one day that reminds her of him. It's such a beautiful color and she can see it pairing well with his shirts and jackets and before she knows it, she's strolling into the shop and back out the door a few moments later with a small bag in hand.

Later, she wonders what it was that spurred her down that particular street instead of the one she usually takes, what it was that turned her head just so as the light catches the fabric through the glass. It must be more than a coincidence, but she dismisses the notion as quickly as it came. Surely the universe and its machinations have more important things to worry about than Illya's wardrobe.

He doesn't have much of a reaction when she presents it to him, not that she was really expecting one. By now, she has learned to read between the lines, and from his quiet _thank you_ to the way he stiffens when he picks up the fabric, she can already hear the words she knows he's too polite to say.

_You don't like it_ , she murmurs. She had thought her fashion sense was getting better, but it looks like she was wrong.

_No, it's not that,_ he responds quickly. _It's just…_ he hesitates and looks endearingly embarrassed. _I don't really like this color._

That is not the answer she was expecting. She was expecting him to say it's not the right width or length or the pattern is all wrong. Because those are things she can learn so that next time, she'll know better.

The problem is, green happens to be her favorite color. And no matter how hard she tries, she's not sure she will ever know better. She's not sure she will ever _not_ want to share it with him, because that's what you do when you care for someone - you share the things you like with them and hope that they like them too.

Illya doesn't like green. And if Gaby were a different kind of woman, she might have seen this as a sign of their incompatibility. Instead, she simply picks up the bag and fishes around in her purse for the receipt.

_I'll return it in the morning_ , she says.

But to her surprise, he takes it from her and wraps it back up. _No,_ Illya murmurs, _I'd like to keep it. In case I change my mind._

It is a perfectly ordinary thing to say, a perfectly ordinary moment. But it feels significant, a heavy stone dropped into an otherwise clear pool.

Perhaps this is fate – not the tie she gives him, but his acceptance, and what that means. Or perhaps this is how you fight fate – not with grand, life-altering gestures, but through these small decisions, like keeping a gift despite its color.

Gaby watches carefully as Illya places the fabric back into its bag, handling it as if it were something delicate and precious.

And she knows then that she will not forget this moment, no matter how many have come before it, no matter how many are still to come after.

It is this one that is special, this one she will carry with her always.

It is in this moment that Gaby falls in love.

...

It's not until later that she finds out what colors mean to him. It's not until later that she finds out about green.

If it were her, she would not have kept the tie.

If it were her, she would have burned it.

Luckily, Illya is a better person than she is.

...

After their second mission, Solo returns to America and Illya to Russia and Gaby is left adrift with no country and no home. It is the first time she has been without the comfort of her dark, dusty garage, and suddenly, she feels uncertain, like a bird struggling to fly the first time it leaves its cage.

She is not a real agent, not like the other two. In fact, after Rome, during her debriefing with Waverly, she makes it clear that she has no desire to join him in the field.

_But, Gaby, you've got the skillset,_ he implores her, _and you're a natural at it. With some training, you could be a valuable asset._

But that's just it. She doesn't want to be his asset. She does not want to belong to England, sitting at the end of a leash, waiting for her master's orders. But a small voice in the back of her head sneers that the leash is already in place, that it just has a different name. She pushes it down and hopes she is not being naive.

It's not the same with UNCLE. Perhaps it's only a matter of semantics, but it feels different to her. When she's working with Solo and Illya, the lines between CIA, KGB, and MI-6 blur until it's like they're not even there at all. When they're working together, they're not serving their countries, they're protecting the greater good, they're protecting each other.

And that _is_ different. And that is important.

_You know_ , she says thoughtfully, _combat training isn't a bad idea. But I won't join MI-6, no. UNCLE is enough for me._

This still leaves her in her current predicament – homeless.

Solo suggests she move to America, and even offers to marry her to help her get a green card.

_Why do I feel like you've said this before, to other poor, vulnerable girls?_ She asks, half joking, but genuinely touched at his offer. She turns him down, of course. She has grown fond of the Cowboy but is certain she will not be able to endure a country full of them.

Illya knows better than to suggest she make a home in Russia. He knows as well as she does that it would just be another prison for her. Besides, she's almost certain they wouldn't let her in anyways.

Ironically, it's Waverly's suggestion she finally accepts. He assures her there are no strings attached, she is not in his debt, and despite her initial suspicion, she eventually believes him. She's never been to London and knows nothing about the city, but it seems as good a place as any to live, so she packs up her few belongings and boards a plane without ever looking back.

Her new flat is situated on a quiet street in a quaint part of town and it's all so charming Gaby wonders if she's fallen into a fairy tale. She scopes out the neighborhood as soon as her feet hit the ground, mapping out a grocery store and the post office and a cafe.

On her way back, she takes one too many right turns and discovers, by accident (or perhaps some other stronger force), a flower shop.

The vivid yellow door catches her eye immediately, and it takes her a moment to notice the abundance of green in the window. It's striking and lush, and when she steps inside, she swears she's entered a rainforest.

It is so different from anything she's ever known - bright and sunny, with the scent of earth filling her senses - yet it feels familiar all the same. Inexplicably, it reminds her of her old garage, with that same hum of life and energy jolting her in her bones.

_Can I help you, dear?_ A woman's voice brings Gaby out of her memories, and she sees the elderly shopkeeper watching her curiously.

_I was just looking,_ Gaby murmurs, brushing her fingers on a nearby fern. _You have a beautiful shop here._

The woman smiles warmly. _That's very kind of you to say._ She sets an armful of flowers down on the counter and starts arranging them in a vase. After a moment, she looks up at Gaby. _I don't think I've seen you around before, are you visiting?_

_Oh, I just moved to the neighborhood recently_ , Gaby replies, stepping closer to the counter and watching the woman work. They lapse into a comfortable silence, as if they are old friends, and before Gaby realizes it, the sun has set and the woman - Charlotte - is closing up shop.

She gives Gaby a warm hug and thanks her for the company. _If you're not busy, why don't you come back tomorrow? I could use some help around here and you look like you're good with your hands._

And there it is again – luck.

Fate.

And that's how Gaby becomes a full-time florist and part-time spy.

...

In the language of flowers, it is the colors that transform a bouquet from a group of plants into a message, rich with meaning.

Red is for passion.

Yellow is for happiness.

White is for peace.

And green…

Well.

Gaby has always liked green.

...

It takes her nearly a year to fully furnish her flat.

She sleeps on a mattress laid out on the floor and leaves her clothes draped over the back of a chair for eleven months before she lets herself feel comfortable enough to unpack. Before she stops looking over her shoulder, before she stops lying awake at night, waiting for someone to drag her back to Germany.

Her mattress gets upgraded to a real bed with a frame and headboard, and her clothes hang up in her closet. She brings plant cuttings back from the flower shop and arranges them in their own pots, watering them until they grow and envelop her kitchen in leaves and blossoms.

It's a perfectly soft and warm and domestic life, utterly befitting of a florist.

But every home has its secrets, and hers take the form of two suitcases tucked deep in the back of her closet.

One is a polished leather duffel, filled with clothes and toiletries, in case she is ever called unexpectedly for a mission.

The other is a small, worn overnight bag, with cash sewn into the lining, and a few personal mementos tucked inside – photos, keepsakes, precious memories of her childhood. Her father gave it to her shortly before he left.

_If you ever need to start over_ , he had said. She didn't know what he meant then, when she was young, but now, she knows all too well.

And now, no matter how comfortable she feels in her new life, she still can't let herself forget his words. More than once, she considers taking out the photos and setting them out on the mantle, but she always stops herself. No matter how comfortable she feels, she never lets herself forget the fear that one day, she will wake up and have to leave everything behind.

She doesn't unpack that second suitcase.

Not until the day Illya moves in.

...

Of course, he settles into her life more easily than she herself did. He sets his own baggage down in the closet next to hers – just one suitcase that holds all his worldly possessions – and it feels somehow like he has always been there.

Maybe he has.

Maybe he is just now filling the space that she had instinctively left for him, all this time.

It's such a cliché, but his presence makes her feel safe. Because he is stable. Sturdy.

He reminds her of the old tree that stood in the yard of her childhood home. On the best of days, it would bend and groan under the weight of its own branches, and during stormy days, it would thrash about in the rain and wind and she would lie awake at night, listening to the sound of its branches scraping against the windows, wondering if this would be the night it finally toppled over. Yet somehow, every time, after the storm had passed, under the light of a new day, it would always still be standing.

She asked her father once, right before he disappeared, how it stayed upright like that, and his answer is one that she has never forgotten.

_It has deep roots_ , he had told her. _Roots that keep it steady, roots that nourish it and keep it tied to the ground._

Gaby has never had roots. She may have spent most of her life stuck in Germany, but she is not beholden to it, she is not bound to it. Not in the way that Illya is bound to Russia, a bond forged by blood and sacrifice and obligation.

Illya has roots, but sometimes, Gaby worries that instead of fixing him to the ground, they are dragging him down underneath it. It keeps her up some nights, the dread that one day, he'll bend so far that he snaps in half, the dread that one day, he, too, will leave and never come back.

Yet, he always does.

Despite the odds, despite the danger, despite everything that could keep them apart, he always finds his way back to her and their cozy little home.

Her fears never come true.

And perhaps this is fate – that he always comes back.

Or perhaps this is how he fights fate – by always coming back.

...

Perhaps having luck on her side means that it is on his side too.

...

The day after Illya moves in, Gaby decides to stop wearing green.

Over the course of a few months, she purges countless items from her closet, not because he asked her to, but because she knows he never will.

It's not that Gaby is the kind of woman who gives up her own interests for the sake of a man. She's not. But this is different. Knowing what that color means to him, how it pains him, it doesn't seem right to flaunt it about, not when he's seen enough of it already. It is a very small thing she can do for him, and it does not make her feel like any less of her own woman to do so.

But.

There is one item she can't get rid of: the green dress he picked out for her in Rome. It's not because the day she wore it was particularly eventful, because it wasn't, not by a longshot. It's not even because it's one of her favorites, because she has plenty more pieces she likes more than that one.

The reason she can't bring herself to give it up is because that was the first time it began to feel real. That was the first time she realized that they could be real.

And now, it is. Now, it is real, the two of them, together. And saying goodbye to the dress that started it all won't change that. Call it a foolish sentimentality, call it an unnecessary attachment – she still can't bear to get rid of it. But she can't bear to wear it either.

So the dress sits in the back of the closet, condemned to a life of sartorial purgatory.

Somewhere nearby, on a bed of tissue paper, still with its tag, lies a green silk tie.

...

In the language of flowers, green symbolizes life.

It represents health. And wealth.

And hope.

...

Illya proposes to Gaby on the last day of spring. He takes her out to her favorite restaurant and presents her with the ring right after dessert. She shrieks and throws her arms around him as the rest of the restaurant bursts into applause.

So she is told. By Solo, who relishes in re-enacting his imagined version of events every time he sees her.

The truth is, that night is more or less a blur. She doesn't recall much of what they ate or what music was playing or what kind of champagne they were drinking.

It's not the proposal she remembers, but what happened before.

Illya had come home early that night and was waiting for her when she walked through the door. There was a twinkle in his eye that delighted her.

_Let's go out tonight_ , he had said, _I've made reservations._

She had hurried over to the closet, running her fingers through her clothes, struggling to decide what to wear. Somehow, her hand had found its way to the back, pulling out a dress she had tried time and time again to forget.

She remembers feeling a fervent need to wear it.

_Just for fun_ , she had told herself, as she slipped it off the hanger. _To see if it still fits._

And it did, just as well as on the day she first wore it, as if no time had passed at all. She had stared at herself in the mirror, remembering what her life had been like back then, so lost in thought and memories that she hadn't heard Illya come up behind her.

_Perfect_ , he had murmured with a smile.

She remembers turning around to look at him, startled that he caught her, then startled again by the tie around his neck, new and familiar all at once, the green fabric a perfect match for her dress.

_But Illya_ , she had said, with a slight waver in her voice. _I thought that you didn't like this color._

His answer had been four words.

_I changed my mind._

And this is what Gaby remembers most about the day she agreed to marry Illya.

The gentle look in his eyes as he smiled down at her.

The softness in his voice as he spoke those words.

The way her heart sighed in response.

...

Perhaps this is fate, when you find your way home.

Perhaps this is how you fight fate, by finding your way home.

...

_Fin_


End file.
